


Pb

by ladygrange



Category: Led Zeppelin
Genre: "touch brings it back”, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Car Accidents, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Non-Linear Narrative, a naturally occurring pain killer, and intangible emotional distress, and opiorphin, and stress erodes, and that the university of colorado at boulder conducted a study in 2017, at the intersection of immediate physical injury, communication occurs on a fundamental level, contains electrolytes and enzymes and antimicrobial forces, goldstein writes, helps stabilize, i think of tending once again, it is that sweet refrain, marks intention and relation, meaning accrues for me in these acts of gentleness and care, of tenderness, on the analgesic effects of touch, that human saliva is complex, that soothes the soul and calms the pain, where breakage occurs, “it appears that pain totally interrupts this interpersonal synchronization between couples”
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:33:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 4,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22454218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladygrange/pseuds/ladygrange
Relationships: Jimmy Page/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 27





	1. England

She wakes sobbing. Disoriented.

Pain fills the space of that awful sound she makes. She can’t stop.

In the blur of her vision, a face appears. Dark hair, he’s concerned. A hand she knows curls at the top of her head.

“Emmaline, darling, it’s alright.”

She chokes an apology. Cannot stop the sobbing. Cannot stop saying she’s sorry. She’s stripped down to elements. An uncontrollable wailing not known since birth. 

Jimmy turns away to speak. “Can you not give her something? She’s obviously suffering.”

Her spit has turned thick - a coagulation of snot and dehydration. She raises her hand for Jimmy. 

Blood, she realizes with overpowering nausea, smears around a taped needle. 

A kidney shaped bowl appears beneath her chin to catch the bitter contents of her stomach. Bile provokes more tears. 

The monitor tracking her pulse agitates the roar in her ears. She heaves a last time. The pain in her side sears. A pair of shears shoved deep in her left side. It cannot be ignored. She mumbles feebly that she’s sorry. 

Jimmy’s arm supports her shoulders. He helps lay her down. She can’t latch onto his words. Though the tone is soft. She tries to turn into his chest but the saline line prevents her.

Lethargy clouds out her vision. Everything grows distant. She does know the cool hand on her cheek. Pressure and warmth originate on her arm and coat every cell. She sleeps.


	2. Montreux, Switzerland

Winter grass spreads before her - a fox’s pelt laid forth. Not the same color as the apricot Jimmy pares off but related.

The same chalet and property of July, a loaner from Claude Nobs, with its solid timber beams and wide eaves. Green shutters frame the windows, sit pretty on walnut siding. Peter had deemed the former dairy ‘very secure’. At first for non-residency. A juggling act between taxes in the States and in England, between accountants and lawyers. More doctors than she ever cared to visit. 

Now the chalet serves convalescence. The thought bitters her mouth and she turns to the fruit; its sweet yield. Jimmy hands her another slice. She eats slowly. 

She should have told him to bring jars, and more sugar. They only have a small stock pot in the kitchen. Perhaps they will go into town. Perhaps she will get out of silence pudding thick. Too heavy.

She turns to tell him. Too fast.

Pain gouges her left ribs, makes her fist the arm of her chair with her good hand. 

Jimmy drops the fruit, and it rolls unevenly to the edge of the dormant garden. He takes her shoulders and eases her back. 

“Sorry,” she manages, jaw clenched. “I’m sorry.”

“Emmaline.”

Jimmy articulates every syllable. She knows it pains him to hear her repeat that. She cannot catch herself. He rubs light circles in her shoulders. Swallows and moderates.

“Do you need something?”

“No, I…” She crushes another apology against the roof of her mouth.

Jimmy arranges her scarf over her nose, nearly to her eyelashes. Pulls her cap to her brows. Only her eyes show, still watering from discomfort. She is bundled in enough wool and cotton to be thrown against that passenger window again and not suffer a scratch. 

“We need to go inside,” Jimmy says.


	3. Montreux, Switzerland

Emma stands before the refrigerator, feet almost burning from the icy floor. She must’ve kicked her socks off while asleep. 

In this dark, this temporary place anchored to the countryside, Jimmy has started smoking. Away from her.

He paces the back garden. And he smokes. And she sits, watching him. And in this dark, on the counter, a bottle of dilaudid glares at her, replete with medicine. For easier sleep.

And as she stares, as her toes numb, something terrible unmoors from within. Her chin trembles. Breaths turn choppy. The silver handle of the fridge wobbles and waves and she winds an arm around her aching side. Tries to remember:

Spleen, liver, kidney, all just fine. Even the wrist would sew itself up. The left lung needed the most help, the doctor had said. Miraculous it had not collapsed. Intercostal loops in her mind at random these days. Her wrist, the one sewing itself up, hangs limp at her side. In plaster. She tries to coax herself from tears. Back to the bedroom.

But she’d need his help. Shakes her head at nobody. She does not want to wake him - not after such broken sleep. 

She jumps at the touch to her shoulder.

“Emmaline.”

The light hurts her eyes when Jimmy turns them on, and only when she opens, squinting, does she see her socks. He’s turned them right side in. And he’s sitting her at the table. Solid wood chair. His hands are extraordinarily warm on her feet.

They had not gone to town. The apricots ran out three days ago. The calls come but he takes them out of her earshot. He will tell her to rest, she thinks distantly, while the other sock goes to her calf. She is tired of resting. 

Something - a word, phrase, the unravelling of her mind’s dialogue - beats at her throat. Wants free.

Instead, it accumulates in the muscles of her neck and bunches tight with her shoulders. 

Silence erodes speech. Drapes itself over the possibility of speech.

She casts about blindly, inner cheek caught between her teeth, for anything. Any word will do. Any word might not do what she wants it to. 

Jimmy only stays kneeling, hands on his bent knees, gaze fixed on her feet. 

She closes her eyes. And she thinks of winter grass. An orange shock.


	4. Rhodes, Greece

Figs perfume the air around her - their leaves cause her legs to itch, pieces stick to her sweating neck. But she cannot move. Even if the bed of the fruit truck was wider. She is fortunate just to be out of the Austin Mini. Out of a car smash. Absurd phrase, she thinks; as though a hit or a sensation. Really, an accident.

The truck hits a pothole in the narrow road and the urge to vomit nearly overcomes her. Dizzies her head and twists the jagged pain in her side. In her wrist.

She tries to remember vague slips of anatomy. Cannot. 

Unwanted, invited by a swinging turn of the vehicle, she relives.

A sickening swerve from one lane to its opposite. From the steady flow of tree and rock and ocean, the Mediterranean as she has never seen, to an alternate. Azure sky rolls against her vision - shatters. Glass, skin, and bone. A fleeting, unwelcome thought of taxes and exile. 

She tries to focus on the Greek woman sat beside her, speaking gently with kind, worried eyes. A rag presses to the gash at her temple. She has a vague notion that head wounds bleed a lot. 

The woman’s words are lost to Emma; she registers tone and nothing else. She tries to convey with her eyes that she will be alright. Cannot.

The truck lurches again and her stomach tries to revolt. The hot pain in her side redoubles. Eyes cloudy, she cries without knowing it. The woman clasps her hand. She dares not look to the side at her other hand.

Instead, she tries to establish the facts of the situation.

Robert wanted sunshine and a family holiday. There was the Spanish Sahara, and a few meetings with label people. Rehearsals for the tour would commence in Paris. Timetables were set. Everybody excited.

Jimmy had gone to Sicily. She would see him tomorrow as planned. 

The facts have lost their equivalence. They disjoint with her growing confusion. Unfamiliar surroundings. She tells herself it is Monday but cannot quite grasp that concept. 

She only wishes for Jimmy.


	5. Munich, Germany

“I don’t want to get in.”

Jimmy looks silently at her hand - fingers twisting together, knotting and unkotting. He looks about to take them and smooth out her knuckles. 

“You’re not walking to the Arabella another time, Emmaline.”

The Arabella Building, Musicland Studios in its basement, features a gridded façade in which she feels trapped at the bottom of a colander. Whoever designed the building had abysmal taste. She almost asks him for a ticket back. Admonishes herself in an instant. That argument already played out. 

Jimmy would not be parted from her, some compulsive watchfulness, some vigilance attends her every hour, determines each moment. Alters his tone and touch.

The car’s exhaust huffs just a few steps away. She does not want to get in.

Jimmy takes her hand between his own.

“Emmaline, darling.”

Soft, cajoling, and in another time, he would have kissed her but now Jimmy handles her with such excessive caution she might as well be confined to an airless room.

Her chair behind the booth squeaks if she leans to the right. Or forward. Or back. It seems designed for a rigid posture that causes a bit of an ache in her left ribs.

Jimmy sat her there an hour ago with instructions not to strain herself and to ask a staff member for whatever she needs. He had looked out frequently, between tunings and modifications. Watchful.

Now, she watches a tech wield pliers to the Les Paul’s strings. A packet of new strings ready to replace the old ones.

She finds herself ruminating once more. Musicland may be bright and modern and organized but thoughts consume. Knot and unknot. 

The idea was that work would prove useful, a tonic of sorts. Writing and recording would offer coherence. Would point the way. The execution proves more difficult. 

“Emma.”

Jonesy looks tired but relieved. She welcomes him with a similarly relieved smile.

“Robert’s alright?” she asks.

“Hasn’t rebroken anything,” Jonesy says, settling into the chair beside her. “Got a good talking to about trying to dance while on a crutch.”

She smiles, relaxes. “From Jimmy or the doctor?”

Jonesy grins back. “From all of us.”

Jimmy had dashed to Robert, had arranged help, a car, availability at the hospital. Told her to sit tight here. She had summoned her patience and nodded. No reason to agitate the situation.

“Strange,” Jonesy says thoughtfully, rocking gently in the chair. “When you get to play, want to get across to people, you get road fever, and you need home. But when you’re home, you start wanting the road. It’s madness.”

She nods. “A kettle with a cork in the top.”

“Yes, Jimmy has said the same thing.”

They lapse into a companionable, if only slightly preoccupied, quiet. ‘We need this album’ Jimmy said. Calls it the Munich LP. And she agrees. Jimmy, with tapes as blueprints, with ideas coming fresh and boundless in their enthusiastic pursuit. His immersion with harmonies. A sheer enjoyment that carries him through bouts of doubt.

Doubt carries her now.

“What did you think of the track?” Jonesy nods to the paused reel of tape.

“It’s brilliant,” she says. “Jimmy has a bunch of plans for the overdubs, about a full days worth.”

Jonesy chuckles. “Feels a bit like I’m tagging along in this one.”

She looks at her lap. Wrist fully knitted and out of plaster. Ribs nearly normal. The ache in her knees and thighs say she’s been stationary for too long.

“I think I am too.”


	6. Saint Helier, Jersey

In the dream she is a child again. Inexplicably small. Feet unable to reach the brakes, the clutch, the accelerator. The car moves anyhow. The dashboard rises too high. The seat too large. The wheel cold and heavy. Unmanageable.

And, as dreams do, the frame tilts. Streets flood and the sky blackens. Her tiny fingers clutch at the wheel; they do not even make its circumference. Her face grows feverish, she wishes very much to escape.

She wakes. Must remind herself that she was not the one driving. 

She must tell herself that this is not Rhodes. Neither is it Malibu, Hollywood, or New York City. Nor is it Montreux’s chalet or Munich’s rented house. And it is certainly not home. Plumpton. She’s in Jersey. Far enough from the English coast to be free of tax requirements. Close enough she imagines herself stepping through Guernsey, right to Bournemouth. A train home. 

A herringbone patterned blanket has been tucked under her chin. The covers bunch around her feet to preserve heat. 

The space beside her, predictably, is empty. Initially, Jimmy worried about rolling into her and causing harm. Now, she suspects avoidance. Knows it by the smell of cigarettes wafting from the threshold of the cottage’s main room.

Jimmy’s in an old fisherman’s jumper. Water-repellent from the lanolin still in the wool. Warm, off-white, and rolled above his wrists. Before him: tapes from the Garden two years ago, notes on tapes from the Garden, plans for these notes and tapes. Frustration wrinkles his nose and tousles his hair - grown past his shoulders, in need of a trim.

“You’re still working on them?”

His head raises sharply, cigarette smashed out. She loathes the concern crimping his expression, that sheen of guilt. She would strip him of it were she able. Jimmy goes to her and takes her shoulders in that hovering way.

“Emma, you should be sleeping.”

She shakes her head emphatically. “No, Jimmy. _We_ should be sleeping.”

Jimmy appears flummoxed at her stern look. Then even more gently, he tries to turn her around.

“Darling, you’re recovering, you simply don’t understand -”

“Don’t understand,” she scoffs. 

Impatience flares in her belly, in her hands which shove him away.

“No I do understand. I understand that you will not accept that I am well. That dragging me across the continent, to the States, to nearly every session is all…It’s all -”

Her hands carry the sentence away. Jimmy watches her with alarmed confusion, watches her wrist though it is all better now.

“Emma, you’re going to over exert yourself.”

She squeezes her eyes shut and presses her back teeth together so hard the pressure radiates to her jaw. 

She has done with that ferocious thob at her temples. Looks at him now. Determined. 

“Wherever you have gone, you have not taken me. Not really. You are not with me right now, and you haven’t been with me since Rhodes. I would like you to come back. I would…” Her shoulders droop, she is saturated, voice thick. “Please, I would like you to. Please…”

Brows pulled together, laced with hurt, tone hushed, Jimmy says,

“I have been with you this whole time, Emma.”

“You haven’t. You’ve barely reached out.”

His lips part on a gust of breath. He stares as though she’s morphed into an unfamiliar being. And then some awful return. Guilt of such massive proportions it stands no chance of being sent away with words. 

So, she raises her knee and removes one sock, then the other. Underwear lands on top. She keeps his eyes. Night shirt last.

She stretches her arms to him, reaching and uncertain. There is no chill, the fire glows behind her. And she knows that longing in his eyes for what it is, knows how his hair catches in the collar when he takes the jumper off. Fingers fumble at the button of his jeans. Then, every piece gone, Jimmy goes to her.

Her nerves leap, rush forth, run quick with joy.

He wraps her close, holds her in warmth. Unfathomable relief gushes from the top of her head. Straight down. Makes her tremble. And then Jimmy tightens his arms and she’s compressed until even her bones sigh, every vessel and vein calms. She nuzzles into the little cove of his shoulder that smells of him.

“My darling.”

Jimmy burrows close. Buries his face at her neck - in her hair - lips open on her skin.

“My darling, my darling.”

Jimmy can’t seem to stop saying it. Then Emmaline. Then my darling. Syllables smear into each other - consonant to vowel. All run through with want. 

With the vast tenderness of his mouth tracking over her breast. A kiss to her nipple. To that line of fracture. Where no wound shows. Not even that nasty green slab of a bruise that had taken so long to fade.

Jimmy licks - raspy velvet, wet and warm. His tongue drags flat and repeatedly over her left ribs.

Her breathing falters, her throat works. She thinks of the impossibility of words. Of love lived long in her mouth and his. In her body and his. With a last, slow lick Jimmy rises to meet her.

She presses her palms to his naked chest, to a solid thump. Warm neck which reacts with a twinge to her touch. Eyes, lidded heavy, follow her now. Witness her in her wanting. Her appetite unfilled. 

She fingers the fragile slope where his ear meets the hinge of his jaw.

“Kiss,” she murmurs. “Please.”


	7. Saint Helier, Jersey

Her thoughts arrive clear and urgent. She knows him.

Jimmy holds her face through the kiss. Angles her head to explore - each sound, pulse of her body, tongue slick with his. Breaths panted.

All kindled, lit, and quivering.

He kisses her temple, where the gash had been. And he trails down, cups her breasts to suckle and nuzzle the stiff, pink tips. She delights in his touch. She has his hair by the palmfuls; black overflows, abundant over her fingers and wrists.

The carpet is soft and thick on her back. Jimmy spreads her wide for his gaze. An intent look, _thrumming_ with need. He crouches to lap slowly at her open sex. One hand rests on the wet spot at her ribs. She grips his wrist, fingers laid out over the bone.

Pleasure comes in little huffs from her throat. Ribs expand under his touch. Jimmy eats as though savoring, starving, nose buried in her curls, tongue busy with her clit.

She keens his name in a voice so thick she hardly recognizes herself. 

And she comes. And Jimmy’s hand has not moved. Thumb swiping back and forth till she calms. 

Wood crackles beside them, and sends up a miniature shower of embers. An orange shock. She watches his cock pulse and leak when she kisses his nipple. Sweet, sensitive little protrusion. Jimmy clasps the back of her neck.

She wants to bite, chew, eat and be eaten.

Low sounds break from Jimmy’s throat. She fists his cock, pumps tight but slow, wanting to feel him jerk and tighten. But she wants him inside too, where she’s slippery from his saliva and her orgasm.

“Sit up,” she says softly.

Jimmy nods, knowing her intentions. He seats her on his lap, his legs folded under her bottom. And he guides her legs loosely around him. Rib to rib. Bellies sealed. Jimmy nudges kisses along her jaw and back to her mouth. He does not leave her lips for long, even when he penetrates. Her body stretches, weeps, accepts the stiff intrusion. All the way to the root of his cock. To the knot of her cervix. 

“Emmaline.”

Slick red lips shape her name. In a pleasure drunk way that makes her tense and release around his cock. A sharp contraction when Jimmy captures her nipple in his mouth.

She tugs Jimmy away to look at him. Pink blooms on his chest and cheeks. She knows the tip of his cock, buried inside her, is a deeper color. Plum. Swollen at the crown. Like his lips from kissing her. 

She traces him with her eyes then traces him with her fingertips. With wonder. Heavy, plush lower lids. Breathing whole. Her body open as to swallow. So full.

Jimmy rolls his hips ever so slightly. He knows by her expression that he’s caught that spot inside, tinged sweet and heavy pleasured. She pulses around him and mewls. A soft, helpless sound. 

“Come for me, darling,” Jimmy says. “I am here with you.”

He cradles her cheeks. Orgasm _swamps_ her, wets the edges of her eyes. Jimmy licks them clean. And when he crushes her hips tight, head gone loose and throat working, she strokes his face and coos tenderly. Laves kisses along his throat to soothe.


	8. Saint Helier, Jersey

A mountain of blankets cover their bodies. All the cottage has to offer - an avalanche of quilting. Their bodies press near. Jimmy’s shoulder supports her cheek.

She contemplates the dark swirl of hair on his chest. Sifts, pinches, puts a kiss here and there while he combs his fingers through her hair. It takes her a moment to realize he’s gone still. She scoots up. She uses her thumb to smooth out the notch between his brows.

“Tell me.”

Jimmy releases a breath. Speech turns beneath his eyes. 

“You want to go home,” he says finally. “And I’ve kept you.”

His gaze drifts along her face. Searching. She waits. Palm down on his breastbone.

“I should not have let you go to Rhodes. Should not have put you in the car. I…”

“Jimmy.” She picks up his gaze, a lingering mixture of panic and remorse. She speaks firm but gentle. “I wanted to go. Greece is an extraordinary country. You could not have known better.”

Jimmy looks unconvinced. She kisses between his brows, the tip of his nose. 

“It is over now,” she says evenly. “I have survived it.”

Still that searching expression. Until Jimmy accepts her words. Nods.

“Yes, yes it’s over now.”

She melts against him once more. Her side aches a bit, but she’s glad of it. Fingers making idle patterns on his soft belly, she says,

“Tell me what else.”

Jimmy rubs his cheek in her hair. “Feels like I’ve been wrangling with this LP and there’s still things left. We need to get it out there, you know. Play it and everything.”

“You will,” she says. “You have all next year. It will keep.”

“Not sure how the gigs will go.”

She senses doubt in beneath his voice. Worry. She offers a kiss to his collarbone. 

“What about here?”

“Here?”

“Yes.” She cranes her neck to look him in the eyes. “Play at one of the clubs. No big productions, just a short gig. You enjoyed it last year with Bad Company.”

“A short gig…” Jimmy takes to the idea. His lips curve. “I do know a pianist, Norman Hale. He’s quite good.”

“And you’ve just got that blue Strat in,” she adds. “You could try it out as well.”

“Mm, there’ll be some calls to make. It might be possible to get Bonzo’s kit down.” Jimmy drums his fingers along her back. “Behans is just down the road, you know, that’d be easy to book. We don’t need any publicity, of course, have to ring Peter as well…”

“Tireless man,” she chides. Exasperated. Affectionate. “But you __do__ tire. And so do I.” She smiles against his skin. “I want us to rest together sometimes.”

Jimmy blinks slow. Smile a bit sleepy. “Together.”

“Yes.” She nuzzles closer and yawns. “Rest with me.”

They say nothing together, insulated in touch, in the language of hands. One of Jimmy’s splays across the back of her head, the other has her thigh. She’s got his hair.

And she’s almost got sleep when Jimmy says,

“We’ll go to Plumpton tomorrow.”


	9. Plumpton Place

She wakes draped across Jimmy. Legs tangled. Nose in his hair. She’d trimmed it the day before. They had bathed together last night. His scent surrounds her.

“Emmaline.”

Sleepy mumble. Jimmy gathers her close.

Her blood sings. Good riddance to non-residency. Plumpton aired out and warm and fresh. Jimmy’s erection prods her belly. She wiggles and is rewarded with a raspy laugh.

“Were you dreaming, darling?”

She shakes her head and nibbles kisses to the bend of his neck.

“Are you hungry?”

Another shake. Dinner was a magnificent affair: naked and in bed and a bottle of beer shared between them. Honey dripped over her nipples and sucked off until she had come without being touched. She shivers against Jimmy and licks below his ear.

Three days, she thinks to herself, the previous three days spent here. All to themselves. Jimmy had taken only two calls. Robert was recovering nicely. And the album art was prepared and ready for his review.

Three, almost exclusively naked, days. She wiggles again. She is still wet from last night. Wet from Jimmy’s current exploration. One wrist extends around her thigh; long, graceful fingers tease her slick sex. Folds a deep blush. Had been streaked creamy with his semen.

Last night, Jimmy had laid her flat and placed his fingers between her thighs. To coat them with his seed and her orgasm. Her clit too sensitive to be touched. Then, he’d brought his fingers to her mouth, watched with heavy lids while she sucked them clean. Sweet bitter, salty, his kiss directly after. Her clit twitches. 

“Jimmy,” she whispers.

He catches her mouth and turns them to the side. Side by side, aligned. His cock slips between the lips of her sex. An appreciative sound low in his throat.

“You’re very wet, Emmaline.”

She hums. “A man ravaged me last night.”

Jimmy raises his brows. “How scandalous.”

“I quite enjoyed it actually.”

Crinkles spread with a smile. She would put them there again and again. 

Jimmy lays his leg over both of hers and takes her. That vivid stretch made tight from the position. She squirms on the fullness. Jimmy gives her a disapproving look.

“Move,” she demands, lips rubbing his. She could almost touch his tongue.

Jimmy grins. Gives his cock to her in a steady lilt of his body. She grips his back, grips him inside. Jimmy shifts the angle for a spot that makes her bottom lip tremble. 

“Tell me,” he murmurs. Rocking. Gentle.

“Coming, I’m–” She breaks off on a whimper. “Jimmy…”

“Yes, I know.” Jimmy rubs his nose to her nose. Nudges deep. “I know, Emmaline.”

Sun filters in from the windows. Plumpton will see daffodils soon. The fire warms the air, the crumpled covers surrounding them. Pillows squashed to perfection. And Jimmy knows, knows the frank speech of her body. He knows.

Pleasure blossoms bright and overtakes. Jimmy holds her, keeps rhythm. Keeps track of her eyes which slowly refocus. Keeps her while she comes. Comes back. Makes that sweet return. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so nervous about this piece! And I think I’m going to honor that anxiety because it’s telling me that this was hard to write and required a lot of attention and concentration. I have shortened and squished Led Zeppelin’s timeline here - their time in Malibu and SIR Studios isn’t included though that all happened after Greece and before Munich. These were creative liberties I took for the sake of narrative and I hope it makes sense! 
> 
> Concerning tax exile: Zeppelin could not return to England and couldn’t stay in the US without being subject to their taxes. Moving around Europe accomplished that, as well as the island of Jersey. Apparently many wealthy people lived there to escape what was considered a punitive tax system in England. Robert mocks MP Denis Healey, who imposed these heavy taxes, during their final night at Earls Court: “Thank you very much for being a great audience, and if you see Denis Healey, tell him we’ve gone."
> 
> I was deliberately vague about Robert and his wife, Maureen, because my urgency wasn’t gathering there. Of course, they both sustained heavy injuries and I do not want to brush that aside. 
> 
> As for the non-linear structure: I can speak only for myself in that stress scrambles time. Some moments are vivid, others fuzzy or dreamlike. I wanted to merge structure and theme here, I hope it wasn’t too confusing! 
> 
> And finally, Zeppelin made their comeback at Behan’s West Park in Jersey. It was early December, 350 people were in the audience, and they played for 45 minutes. I know I say thank you a great deal, but I mean it a great deal. To you who keep engaging in my content, I have so much gratitude. Thank you <3


End file.
